Love and Chemistry

Like a hair floating in the rich broth of Dr Sybil Vane's satisfying post, S. Tsing Loh's article put me right off my feed. Could have been the chemicals, I guess. The chemicals in me, I mean, not the chemicals in Loh's article.
I've been taking on a lot of chemicals lately, lowering pails of compounds and distillates. The procedure is to take on chemicals for a few days. Then discharge chemicals for a few days.
Then, follows a period of reflection where I spend a few days reviewing my sins and thinking about naked women.
Then the cycle begins again.
There's a posset made from craisins and spent uranium fuel rods that is particulary ghastly.

There's another of ball bearings marinated in a sauce of potato squeezings and evaporated rocket fuel drained from Titan missles dismantled under the terms of the Salt II agreement, pureed and filtered through an old Robin Hood flour sack, boiled in a pot of radioactive algae, then forced through my kidney by a bicycle pump run by the power-take-off of a 1949 Model M Farmall tractor.
Tasty but it leaves a glick in the mouth. Jackets the tongue in fur. Or hair.
There are some other compotes brewed from the table of elements but they're all named for various Greek gods of sodomy and hair so we'll skip over them for now.
Hair is the hostage of these shocking cocktails. I buzzed mine off to spare all the shock of it falling out in hanks before the long bar of alchemy. A homlier sight you cannot imagine.
Naturally, this is a source of hilarity for my so-called friends and family. Poco claims he can see a likeness of some cartoon figure on the top of my pate. I would whip that child if I had the strength to chase him down. And get aholt of him. And whip him.
So, you will understand that I am sensitive on the topic of chemicals. And hair. Especially hair.

Side Note: I'm told the hair grows back differently after the chemical sluicing. Thicker. Different colors, even. My hair is (was) a salt and pepper hue. Mostly pepper.

OK, OK. Mostly salt. I've requested that it be restored in a chestnut or russet tint. Lots of waves. I'll let you know how that works out.

Which brings me back to Sandra Tsing Loh's article. And the chemicals of love.

She lists a taxonomy of types of attraction and their associated chemicals. You've read the article. I won't go over it here. I would only ask; what chemicals are being fed to the lads in the Loh circle? Cause they are not doing the trick. All the married men of her acquaintance have stopped making love to their wives. Or anybody, so far as can be known. I'd call that bad chemistry.
She concludes that domestication is the enemy of copulation and offers certain proposals, none of which I disagree with, for improving contemporary household arrangements. I especially endorse her tribal proposal for child-rearing; turning the kid over to a household of related women-folk. That's the scheme we've hit on here and it works pretty well, not only for the little kid but for me, too.

Suddenly, I feel a deep fatigue. And all this talk of chemicals is making my stomach lurch.

If you don't mind, I'm going to post what I have so far and take a nap. I know I should wait to post till I have this piece completed but, you know, life is uncertain.
I'll holler.